


A Winter's Song

by willowcrowned



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (thank goodness), Ecthelion makes an appearance but not in any significant way, Fëanor isn't necessarily an absent father, Gen, Maedhros is an incredible flirt, Maglor is a nervous music major, Pre-Oath, Tolkien Secret Santa, Tolkien Secret Santa 2019, Valinor, and Nerdanel is a gem, he's just a bit busy, holiday fic if you squint, only three sons of Fëanor have been born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcrowned/pseuds/willowcrowned
Summary: “Already people were streaming in from outside, cheeks and noses blushed with a light rose from the mild cold of the Valian winter. Jackets were being shed in the entrance and the warm chatter of their voices reached Makalaurë. He was standing in one of the many winding paths off the sides of the stage, fretting with one of the braids that hung over his left ear.”In which Makalaurë has a performance.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë & Nerdanel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	A Winter's Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2Nienna2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Nienna2/gifts).



> I've chosen to use the Quenya versions of all of their names for consistency's sake (switching back and forth between the different forms in dialogue and description just sounds like a headache for anyone reading).

The music hall was strung with thousands of candles, lights glittering off the huge domed glass ceiling like stars. Telperion’s light was waxing, but it shone less strongly in Alqualondë; there, the silver of the western sky mingled with the shadows of the east and the stars sometimes glimmered through. Therefore, the ceiling was ablaze with a mixture of white starlight and the reflections of the warm glint of the candles. 

Already people were streaming in from outside, cheeks and noses blushed with a light rose from the mild cold of the Valian winter. Jackets were being shed in the entrance and the warm chatter of their voices reached Makalaurë. He was standing in one of the many winding paths off the sides of the stage, fretting with one of the braids that hung over his left ear. Someone pushed past him with a mild cough and his expression, formerly somewhat dazed, returned to its usual sharpness. He blinked in confusion and he realized he was blocking the passageway. Tugging again on the braid, he went to find Maitimo. 

To the side of the entrance hall, there were many small rehearsal rooms used for storing instruments, late night practicing, and the occasional drunken chorus. Makalaurë pursed his lips and, hoping he had guessed incorrectly as to his brother’s whereabouts, slipped surreptitiously into one of the bigger ones, one that had been marked with a sign saying “Performers Only”. Inside, a gaggle of upper-level students wandered around, some kicking at the walls, some frantically repeating hand shapes and lyrics to themselves. In the back, a circle of them had gathered surrounding a familiar head of fiery hair. 

Makalaurë walked over, bemused. 

“Do you always intend to break into the performers rooms when you come here, or am I to expect a fortuitous change in behavior after this latest episode of your flagrant flaunting of the rules?” 

Maitimo turned to him, grinning. “Ever the rebel, aren’t you?” 

Makalaurë snorted derisively. 

“I was simply discussing a fascinating new method of musical notation that,” Maitimo turned to the dark-haired elf next to him, arm wrapped around the elf’s shoulders in a manner that some might feel is too familiar for a new acquaintance, “Ehtelion?” The elf nodded. “Ehtelion has been working on with you.” 

Makalaurë raised an eyebrow, casting a skeptical glance at Ehtelion. Ehtelion shrugged, though his face seemed to be conveying a desperate desire to leave. 

“Join me,” Makalaurë said to Maitimo. He grabbed his hand, allowing Ehtelion to slip out of the latter’s grasp with a tangible look of relief. 

“So,” Makalaurë said, steering him out of the room of potential victims of shameless flirting. “What did you think of the chording for our system? I admit the indication of a rise of a semitone isn’t altogether perfect, but we’ve been experimenting with a combination of tengwar and notation to compensate.” 

“Oh, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” his brother said cheerfully, not even having the decency to look ashamed. 

The door closed behind the two, revealing an even fuller entry hall, and Makalaurë, quickly glancing both ways, dragged Maitimo into a side corridor. 

“Must you accost every single one of my friends?” 

“They don’t mind,” Maitimo said with complete assurance. 

Makalaurë sighed in defeat, something he found himself doing more and more often around Maitimo’s insatiable need to make an advance on any half-talented elf. “You know, some of them have started asking me whether you’ll be at our performances.” 

“In anticipation of my delightful company.” He beamed at his brother. 

“They don’t show up when I say you’ll be there.” 

Maitimo dropped his grin. “I don’t mean anything by it.” 

“I know that, but you scare them, Valar know why.” 

“I’ve heard my dashing good looks, charisma, and charm tend to intimidate people.” 

“Charisma and charm are the same thing,” Makalaurë pointed out. 

Maitimo snorted. “Tell that to the minstrels hoping to curry favor with me.” 

“I might, if this is how they’re making you act.” Makalaurë frowned. 

“You know it’s not their fault.” Without giving Makalaurë room to interject, he continued. “My appalling indiscretions aside, you should be worried.” 

“What?” 

“Your hair is a mess.” Maitimo moved to fix the braid Makalaurë had been tugging at without cease for the last half hour. “You’ve completely ruined the symmetry. Let me...” He trailed off as he pulled several pins out of the elaborate clip on the back of Makalaurë’s head. Holding the pins between his teeth, he began to rearrange the braids, restoring them to their neatly intertwined places. 

The two were silent as Maitimo worked, letting the diminishing chatter of the entry hall finally filter through. As they stood, the first of the performers left the room in twos and threes, joined by others in their various groups from other practice rooms. 

“There,” Maitimo said, pushing the final pin in. “And just in time too. I think they’ve started.” He nudged his brother. “You should get backstage.” 

Makalaurë shook his head. “I’ve heard all the pieces before and there’s nothing to do backstage but worry.” 

“Come find Tyelko with me, then. And hope he hasn’t run off from our parents.” 

“Would it be that awful if he had?” Makalaurë asked, following him down the corridor and towards the stairwells. 

“Yes,” Maitimo said darkly. “Well, I’m being a bit dramatic. He’s a nuisance— worse than both of us put together, I should think— but mostly harmless. I swear he has boundless energy. It’s impossible to exhaust him, and believe me,” Maitimo cast a look back at him, “I’ve tried.” He paused as they entered the stairwell. “Just hope he hasn’t climbed anything he’s not supposed to.” 

Makalaurë paled. “He would do that?” 

“Yes,” Maitimo grimaced, “he would.” 

The two reached the third landing and opened a door to one of the boxes. Inside sat a lady with the same fiery hair as Maitmo, though she was a good deal shorter. 

Nerdanel rose when she saw them, drawing them in for a hug. 

She released both of them and stood back, hands on her second son’s shoulders, admiring him. “It’s so good to see you, Makalaurë. I’m so proud.” 

“Wait until you’ve seen me perform to say that with witnesses.” 

Nerdanel grinned, “Maitimo doesn’t count.” 

Maitimo clapped a hand to his chest in mock offense. “And why might that be?” 

“Because if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, I’ll come visit in front of all his friends.” 

Maitimo paled. “You wouldn’t.” 

“You know I would.” Nerdanel eyes glinted with mischief. 

“Please do,” Makalaurë said. “Maybe it’ll finally embarrass him in to sorely-needed reflective silence.” 

“I suppose then,” Maitimo replied, “I’ll have to move to Alqualondë in shame, and intimate myself with all of your friends.” 

It was Makalaurë’s turn to pale. “On second thought, please don’t.” 

“You two haven’t changed a bit,” Nerdanel said fondly. 

Maitimo snorted. “Did you expect us to? I saw you last week, and you saw Makalaurë last festival day.” 

Nerdanel rolled her eyes. “Ever the smooth talker, aren’t you?” 

“We all know I get by on good looks alone,” Maitimo grinned. 

Their mother looked fondly at the two of them before drawing Makalaurë in for another hug. 

“Where are father and Tyelko?” Makalaurë asked once she had released her tight grip on him enough to breathe. 

“I’m afraid they’re running a bit late.” Nerdanel frowned. “Tyelko got stuck in a tree and your father stayed to get him out while I went on.” 

“Tyelko got stuck in a tree again?” Maitimo was flabbergasted. “He climbs up enough trees that you’d think he’d have figured out how to climb down by now.” 

Nerdanel pursed her lips. “I’m sure he’ll figure out his limits eventually. Until then... Fëanáro is getting him down.” 

There was a loud swell of clapping. The three glanced over the box railing briefly to see that yet another performer had finished. 

Nerdanel turned to Makalaurë in confusion. “Shouldn’t you be backstage?” 

Makalaurë shrugged, shifting nervously from foot to foot at the reminder of his impending performance. “There’s nothing to do backstage but listen, and I’ve already heard all of the performances. I’d rather not have to watch some underclassmen bungle their runs for the fifteenth time. Besides, I’d like to see father and Tyelko before I perform.” 

Nerdanel cocked her head thoughtfully, looking him up and down. “They will be here,” she said after a long pause. “Your father wouldn’t miss this for all the jewels of Aman.” 

Makalaurë turned his head away, ashamed that she had seen through him so easily. 

“Oh,” she said softly, squeezing his shoulder. “Look, my love, I know neither I nor your father quite understand... this.” She waved her hand at the musicians on stage and the packed hall. “But you love it, and you understand it, and besides, just because neither of us are musicians, doesn’t mean we don’t have ears. I will not deny that it is difficult for the two of us to understand something so transient, so intangible, but we can at least appreciate it, and more than that, we can appreciate you and your talent. We have both been eagerly anticipating this debut.” 

Makalaurë leaned into his mother’s shoulder, an awkward movement, since she was a good half-head shorter than he was. “It’s not that brilliant,” he mumbled, voice muffled by the fabric of her dress. When neither she nor Maitimo responded, he looked up to see them giving him identical incredulous looks. 

“Oh no mother,” Maitimo said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “It’s not that brilliant, for you see, only most of my classmates are in awe of my musical skill. It’s not as if I was allowed here just after my fiftieth birthday, despite the usual age requirement, based on the artistic merit of my audition. I can’t imagine why anyone would be impressed with my work.” 

“Very well,” Makalaurë relented. “I see your point.” 

Nerdanel gave Maitimo a disapproving stare on principal. Maitimo shrugged. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ he mouthed. Nerdanel rolled her eyes at him before turning to her younger son and smiling at him gently. “It’s always difficult to show your own work for the first time, especially when you have experience enough to know that it’s flawed, but not experience enough to know how to fix those flaws. I guarantee you that, to most of the audience it will sound excellent, and to the musical critics it will sound promising.” 

“Bold words,” Makalaurë replied, but he looked visibly relieved. 

Clapping broke out again and he strode to the edge of the box, peering at the performers moving on to the stage. 

“I should go,” he said. “I need to tune.” 

“Of course.” Nerdanel gave him one last embrace. 

“Wait,” Maitimo grabbed his sleeve as he moved to exit. “Let me fix your hair again.” 

Makalaurë paused, allowing his older brother free reign. Maitimo tugged out one pin, twirled the ever-abused braid more tightly around the ornamental clip holding all the braids together. 

“There.” he released Makalaurë. “You still shouldn’t tug on it, but if you do forget, then it should stay.” 

Makalaurë smiled tightly and left. 

Behind him he heard Nerdanel’s muffled voice “You should have gone into hairdressing instead of politics.” 

Even quieter was Maitimo’s response. “No one would write songs about me if I went into hairdressing.” 

As he entered the stairwell, Makalaurë faintly heard his mother’s laughter. 

Before he knew it he was out on stage, all mirrored light focused on him. He glanced up to the box where he knew his mother and brother were watching, but could see nothing but a white glare. He cleared his throat. A touch ensured his harp was in tune. He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth, and— 

He came back to himself during the applause. He could vaguely remember the actual performance; there was a sharp he had missed in the sixteenth measure and the semiquaver halfway through had turned into a quaver. And yet he had finished. 

Makalaurë bowed, walked offstage, and immediately collapsed into a chair just off the wings. Ehtelion gave him a sympathetic look as he went out on stage with the rest of his ensemble, but it barely registered. 

“Good luck,” he managed to whisper before Ehtelion was too far away. 

Ehtelion turned back and attempted to sign that he was okay. Unfortunately, he was carrying both a flute and a music stand, and therefore his sign was more of a frantic wobble. Makalaurë snorted, hoping Ehtelion wouldn’t hear him. Thankfully, Ehtelion made it on to stage in one piece and began a truly heart-wrenching solo. 

Makalaurë closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. His heart felt faint, as if he had just been in a desperate sparring match, but his muscles were full of energy. It was all he could do to breathe. 

Slowly, slowly. In and out. In and out. And then, as his heart began to slow to a steady beat, he remembered the applause. A smile crept over his face and he reached up absentmindedly to touch at the braid Maitimo had fixed. He felt strange. He hadn’t expected to feel this strange. He’d performed so many times that the cheers should have become dull. But they weren’t dull. If anything, they meant more. They had cheered for him. For his work. His smile stretched wider. He couldn’t have pressed it back if he had wanted to. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been strange. But it was. And it was wonderful. And his mother had seen! And Maitimo! And— at this he stopped. A single cool piece of disappointment wrapped itself around his chest and squeezed, just a little. 

Makalaurë shook his head to rid himself of the juvenile discontent and put his harp away. He stepped into the winding corridor outside of the stage, only to be tackled by a ball of silver hair. Makalaurë silently thanked whatever Vala was responsible for proper storage of instruments that he had left his harp on the other side of the door. 

“Whoa,” he said. 

“You were fantastic!” Tyelko grinned up at him, looking for all the world like very small and excitable shark. 

Behind him, Fëanáro nodded in approval. 

Makalaurë felt something unravel inside him. “I’m glad you thought so.” He didn’t look at Tyelkormo as he spoke, but at his father. The warmth in his father’s eyes (perhaps warmth was the wrong word, for Fëanáro’s spirit shone through his eyes always in the form of flames, but love was such a difficult thing to articulate) was all the response he needed. 

“It’s true,” Nerdanel added. “I shan’t have to threaten Maitimo in to silence.” 

“And for that,” Maitimo said, “I am incredibly thankful.” 

Makalaurë grinned and shook his head at their antics before turning to the small child in front of him. 

“Now what has happened to your hair, little one?” He asked Tyelko, carding his fingers through the shoulder length mess of silvery-grey. 

“Mother said if I didn’t interrupt her or father for six hours, I could do whatever I wanted with my hair.” Tyelko jumped onto Makalaurë, surprisingly strong for a child that was barely half his height. 

Makalaurë hoisted him up onto his hip and cast a quizzical glance at his mother. “Is that so?” 

“In all fairness,” Nerdanel attempted to justify, “I didn’t believe that he was capable of doing so.” 

“That’s not a defense,” rumbled Fëanáro, though his face betrayed that he was not as put out as he appeared. 

Nerdanel laughed. “You have me there.” 

The door behind Makalaurë opened, revealing Ehtelion. At the sight of Maitimo, he paled and went back through the door. 

“It appears,” said Fëanáro, “that we are blocking this corridor.” 

Makalaurë and Maitimo glanced at each other, grateful their father had not divined the true meaning of Ehtelion’s flight. 

“Yes,” Maitimo said, already leading their little party farther down the corridor. “Let’s leave. I am eager to see what Tyelko has done to the house in my short absence.” 

Makalaurë nodded, staring down at Tyelko very seriously. “And we shall have to see if the damage merits your hair being dyed back.” 

Tyelko giggled. “You’re bluffing.” 

Makalaurë was careful to let no hint of mirth show on his face. 

“He is bluffing, right?” Tyelko looked to their mother. 

Nerdanel had to turn her face to keep him from seeing her smile. “Come, it’s a while back, and I want to return before the next mingling of the lights. I’ve been working with glass recently, Makalaurë. My newest work relies on the exact balance of brightness and shadow.” 

“Then let us hasten,” Makalaurë replied. 

“What?” Tyelko looked between the two of them. “Wait! Let’s think this through! We should visit here a little longer!” 

Fëanáro’s eyes were dancing as he met Makalaurë’s gaze. ‘I am glad to have you back,’ his eyes seemed to say. 

I’m glad to be back, Makalaurë thought. He gave his father a small smile. I’m glad to be back.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys know the drill: kudos loved, comments adored, and concrit craved.


End file.
